_The Mission to a Deserving Gentile_
Not daunted by her father's strange lack of enthusiasm, Prudence arose
with the thought of her self-imposed mission strong upon her. Nor was
she in any degree cooled from it by a sight of the lost sheep striding
up from the creek, the first level sunrays touching his tousled yellow
hair, his face glowing, breathing his full of the wine-like air, and
joyously showing in every move his faultless attunement with all outside
himself. The frank simplicity of his greeting, his careless
unenlightenment of his own wretched spiritual state, thrilled her like
an electric shock with a strange new pity for him. She prayed on the
spot for power to send him into the waters of baptism. When the day had
begun, she lost no time in opening up the truth to him.
If the young man was at all amazed by the utter wholeness of her
conviction that she was stooping from an immense height to pluck him
from the burning, he succeeded in hiding it. He assumed with her at once
that she was saved, that he was in the way of being lost, and that his
behooving was to listen to her meekly. Her very evident alarm for his
lost condition, her earnest desire to save him, were what he felt moved
to dwell upon, rather than a certain spiritual condescension which he
could not wholly ignore.
After some general counsel, in the morning, she took out her old,
dog-eared "Book of Mormon," a first edition, printed at Palmyra, New
York, in 1830, "By Joseph Smith, Jr., Author and Proprietor," and led
the not unworthy Gentile again to the canon. There in her favourite nook
of pines beside the stream, she would share with him as much of the
Lord's truth as his darkened mind could be made conscious of.
When at last she was seated on the brown carpet under the pines, her
back to a mighty boulder, the sacred record in her lap, and the Gentile
prone at her feet, she found it no easy task to begin. First he must be
brought to repent of his sins. She began to wonder what his sins could
be, and from that drifted into an idle survey of his profile, the line
of his throat as his head lay back on the ground, and the strong brown
hand, veined and corded, that curled in repose on his breast. She
checked herself in this; for it could be profitable neither to her soul
nor to his.
"I'll teach you about the Book of Mormon first," she ventured.
"I'd like to hear it," said Follett, cheerfully.
"Of course you don't know anything about it."
"It isn't my fault, though. I've been unfortunate in my bringing up,
that's all." He turned on his side and leaned upon his elbow so he could
look at her.
"You see, I've been brought up to believe that Mormons were about as bad
as Mexicans. And Mexicans are so mean that even coyotes won't touch
them. Down at the big bend on the Santa Fe Trail they shot a Mexican,
old Jesus Bavispee, for running off cattle. He was pretty well dried out
to begin with, but the coyotes wouldn't have a thing to do with him, and
so he just dried up into a mummy. They propped him up by the ford there,
and when the cowboys went by they would roll a cigarette and light it
and fix it in his mouth. Then they'd pat him on the head and tell him
what a good old boy he was--_star bueno_--the only good Mexican above
ground--and his face would be grinning all the time, as if it tickled
him. When they find a Mexican rustling cattle they always leave him
there, and they used to tell me that the Mormons were just as bad and
ought to be fixed that way too."
"I think that was horrible!"
"Of course it was. They were bigoted. But I'm not. I know right well
there must be good Mexicans alive, though I never saw one, and I suppose
of course there must be--"
"Oh, you're worse than I thought!" she cried. "Come now, do try. I want
you to be made better, for my sake." She looked at him with real
pleading in her eyes. He dropped back to the ground with a thrill of
searching religious fervour.
"Go on," he said, feelingly. "I'm ready for anything. I have kind of a
good feeling running through me already. I do believe you'll be a
powerful lot of benefit to me."
"You must have faith," she answered, intent on the book. "Now I'll tell
you some things first."
Had the Gentile been attentive he might have learned that the Book of
Mormon is an inspired record of equal authority with the Jewish
Scriptures, containing the revelations of Jehovah to his Israel of the
western world as the Bible his revelations to Israel in the Orient,--the
veritable "stick of Joseph," that was to be one with "the stick of
Judah;" that the angel Moroni, a messenger from the presence of God,
appeared to Joseph Smith, clad in robes of light, and told him where
were hid the plates of gold on which were graven this fulness of the
everlasting gospel; how that Joseph, after a few years of preparation,
was let to take these sacred plates from the hill of Cumorah; also an
instrument called the Urim and Thummim, consisting of two stones set in
a silver bow and made fast to a breast-plate, this having been prepared
by the hands of God for use in translating the record on the plates; how
Joseph, seated behind a curtain and looking through the Urim and Thummim
at the characters on the plates, had seen their English equivalents over
them, and dictated these to his amanuensis on the other side of the
curtain.
He might have learned that when the book was thus translated, the angel
Moroni had reclaimed the golden plates and the Urim and Thummim,
leaving the sacred deposit of doctrine to be given to the world by
Joseph Smith; that the Saviour had subsequently appeared to Joseph; also
Peter, James, and John, who laid hands upon him, ordained him, gave him
the Holy Ghost, authorised him to baptise for the remission of sins, and
to organise the Kingdom of God on earth.
"Do you understand so far?" she asked.
"It's fine!" he answered, fervently. "I feel kind of a glow coming over
me already."
She looked at him closely, with a quick suspicion, but found his profile
uninforming; at least of anything needful at the moment.
"Remember you must have faith," she admonished him, "if you are to win
your inheritance; and not question or doubt or find fault, or--or make
fun of anything. It says right here on the title-page, 'And now if there
be faults, it be the mistake of men; wherefore condemn not the things of
God that ye may be found spotless at the judgment seat of Christ.' There
now, remember!"
"Who's finding fault or making fun?" he asked, in tones that seemed to
be pained.
"Now I think I'd better read you some verses. I don't know just where to
begin."
"Something about that Urim and Thingamajig," he suggested.
"Urim and Thummim," she corrected--"now listen."
Again, had the Gentile remained attentive, he might have learned how
the Western Hemisphere was first peopled by the family of one Jared,
who, after the confusion of tongues at Babel, set out for the new land;
how they grew and multiplied, but waxed sinful, and finally exterminated
one another in fierce battles, in one of which two million men were
slain.
At this the fallen one sat up.
"'And it came to pass that when they had all fallen by the sword, save
it were Coriantumr and Shiz, behold Shiz had fainted with loss of blood.
And it came to pass when Coriantumr had leaned upon his sword and rested
a little, he smote off the head of Shiz. And it came to pass, after he
had smote off the head of Shiz, that Shiz raised up on his hands and
fell; and after he had struggled for breath he died.'"
The Gentile was animated now.
"Say, that Shiz was all right,--raised up on his hands and struggled for
breath after his head was cut off!"
Hereupon she perceived that his interest was become purely carnal. So
she refused to read of any more battles, though he urged her warmly to
do it. She returned to the expedition of Jared, while the lost sheep
fell resignedly on his back again.
"'And the Lord said, Go to work and build after the manner of barges
which ye have hitherto built. And it came to pass that the brother of
Jared did go to work, and also his brethren, and built barges after the
manner which they had built, after the instructions of the Lord. And
they were small, and they were light upon the water, like unto the
lightness of a fowl upon the water; and they were built like unto a
manner that they were exceeding tight, even that they would hold water
like unto a dish; and the bottom thereof was tight like unto a dish, and
the ends thereof were peaked; and the top thereof was tight like unto a
dish; and the length thereof was the length of a tree; and the door
thereof when it was shut was tight like unto a dish. And it came to pass
that the brother of Jared cried unto the Lord, saying--'"
She forgot him a little time, in the reading, until it occurred to her
that he was singularly quiet. She glanced up, and was horrified to see
that he slept. The trials of Jared's brother in building the boats that
were about the length of a tree, combined with his broken rest of the
night before, had lured him into the dark valley of slumber where his
soul could not lave in the waters of truth. But something in the
sleeping face softened her, and she smiled, waiting for him to awaken.
He was still only a waymark to the kingdom of folly, but she had made a
beginning, and she would persevere. He must be saved into the household
of faith. And indeed it was shameful that such as he should depend for
their salvation upon a chance meeting with an unskilled girl like
herself. She wondered somewhat indignantly how any able-bodied Saint
could rest in the valley while this man's like were dying in sin for
want of the word. As her eye swept the sleeping figure, she was even
conscious of a little wicked resentment against the great plan itself,
which could under any circumstances decree such as he to perdition.
He opened his eyes after awhile to ask her why she had stopped reading,
and when she told him, he declared brazenly that he had merely closed
his eyes to shut out everything but her words.
"I heard everything," he insisted, again raised upon his elbows. "' It
was built like unto a dish, and the length was about as long as a
tree--'"
"What was?"
"The Urim and Thummim."
When he saw that she was really distressed, he tried to cheer her.
"Now don't be discouraged," he said, as they started home in the late
afternoon. "You can't expect to get me roped and hog-tied the very first
day. There's lots of time, and you'll have to keep at it. When I was a
kid learning to throw a rope, I used to practise on the skull of a steer
that was nailed to a post. At first it didn't look like I could ever do
it. I'd forget to let the rope loose from my left hand, or I wouldn't
make the loop line out flat around my head, or she'd switch off to one
side, or something. But at last I'd get over the horns every time. Then
I learned to do it running past the post; and after that I'd go down
around the corral and practise on some quiet old heifer, and so on. The
only thing is--never give up."
"But what good does it do if you won't pay attention?"
"Oh, well, I can't learn a new religion all at once. It's like riding a
new saddle. You put one on and 'drag the cinches up and lash them, and
you think it's going to be fine, and you don't see why it isn't. But you
find out that you have to ride it a little at a time and break it in.
Now, you take a fresh start with me to-morrow."
"Of course I'm going to try."
"And it isn't as if I was regular out-and-out sinful. My adopted father,
Ezra Calkins, _he's_ a good man. But, now I think of it, I don't know
what church he ever did belong to. He'll go to any of 'em,--don't make
any difference which,--Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic; he says
he can get all he's looking for out of any of 'em, and he kind of likes
to change off now and then. But he's a good man. He won't hire any one
that cusses too bad or is hard on animals, and he won't even let the
freighters work on Sunday. He brought me up not to drink or gamble, or
go round with low folks and all like that, and not to swear except when
you're driving cattle and have to. 'Keep clean inside and out,' he says,
'and then you're safe,' he says. 'Then tie up to some good church for
company, if you want to, not thinking bad of the others, just because
you didn't happen to join them. Or it don't hurt any to graze a little
on all the ranges,' he says. And he sent me to public school and brought
me up pretty well, so you can see I'm not plumb wicked. Now after you
get me coming, I may be easier than you think."
She resolved to pray for some special gift to meet his needs. If he were
not really sinful, there was all the more reason why he should be saved
into the Kingdom. The sun went below the western rim of the valley as
they walked, and the cooling air was full of the fresh summer scents
from field and garden and orchard.
Down the road behind them, a half-hour later, swung the tall,
loose-jointed figure of Seth Wright, his homespun coat across his arm,
his bearskin cap in his hand, his heated brow raised to the cooling
breeze. His ruffle of neck whiskers, virtuously white, looked in the
dying sunlight quite as if a halo he had worn was dropped under his
chin. A little past the Rae place he met Joel returning from the
village.
"Evening, Brother Rae! You ain't looking right tol'lable."
"It's true, Brother Seth. I've thought lately that I'm standing in the
end of my days."
"Peart up, peart up, man! Look at me,--sixty-eight years come December,
never an ache nor a pain, and got all my own teeth. Take another wife.
That keeps a man young if he's got jedgment." He glanced back toward the
Rae house.
"And I want to speak to you special about something--this young dandy
Gentile you're harbouring. Course it's none of my business, but I
wouldn't want one of my girls companying with a Gentile--off up in that
canon with him, at that--fishing one day, reading a book the next,
walking clost together,--and specially not when Brigham had spoke for
her. Oh, I know what I'm talking about! I had my mallet and frow up
there two days now, just beyond the lower dry-fork, splitting out shakes
for my new addition, and I seen 'em with my own eyes. You know what
young folks is, Elder. That reminds me--I'm going to seal up that
sandy-haired daughter of Bishop Tanner's next week some time; soon as we
get the roof on the new part. But I thought I'd speak to you about
this--a word to the wise!"
The Wild Ram of the Mountains passed on, whistling a lively air. The
little bent man went with slow, troubled steps to his own home. He did
know the way of young people, and he felt that he was beginning to know
the way of God. Each day one wall or another of his prison house moved a
little in upon him. In the end it would crush. He had given up
everything but Prudence; and now, for his wicked clinging to her, she
was to be taken from him; if not by Brigham, then by this Gentile, who
would of course love her, and who, if he could not make her love him,
would be tempted to alienate her by exposing the crime of the man she
believed to be her father. The walls were closing about him. When he
reached the house, they were sitting on the bench outside.
"Sometimes," Follett was saying, "you can't tell at first whether a
thing is right or wrong. You have to take a long squint, like when
you're in the woods on a path that ain't been used much lately and has
got blind. Put your face right close down to it and you can't see a sign
of a trail; it's the same as the ground both sides, covered with leaves
the same way and not a footprint or anything. But you stand up and look
along it for fifty feet, and there she is so plain you couldn't miss it.
Isn't that so, Mr. Rae?"
Prudence went in, and her father beckoned him a little way from the
door.
"You're sure you will never tell her anything about--anything, until I'm
gone?--You promised me, you know."
"Well, didn't I promise you?"
"Not under any circumstances?"
"You don't keep back anything about 'circumstances' when you make a
promise," retorted Mr. Follett.